Love Hurts

by Mandi Beck

  Glancing at the clock one more time, I debate whether I should just leave a note for Andrew or if that’s the chickenshit way out. Going into our bedroom, I grab the two pieces of luggage that I’ve packed and roll them to the front door. Just as I make my way back into the kitchen, I hear him in the garage. This is it; it’s now or never. He knows that something is off—we talked briefly about how we were growing apart, and he of course blamed Deacon, which is a big part of it, even if I haven’t spoken to him in months.

  I don’t have much more time to think about it when I hear the mudroom door squeak open. “I was about to give up on you,” I call out, trying to keep the mood light.

  Just as I’m turning to flip the light on and greet him properly, brave face firmly in place, I’m bashed in the head with something solid. I see nothing but stars as I fall to the floor, reaching for him. Once I hit the ground, I have no time to get my bearings before he grabs me by the arm, yanking me upright and pushing me against the counter. I try to focus but the room is spinning. His hands wrap around my throat, tightening as he slams my head against the cabinet.

  “I didn’t think you would be here, Francesca? Where the fuck is he?” he hisses at me, his cherry and tobacco scented breath hot against my lips. He must have been at the cigar bar with a client, that’s the only time he smokes. I wish he would’ve stayed, I think in a haze.

  “Wh—who? Deacon? He’s not here, I swear, nobody is here,” I sob.

  “Where. Is. He?” With each angry word, his grip gets tighter. I can’t speak. The pressure he’s applying is cutting off my air, causing a tight burning in my chest. I can’t even shake my head to tell him no because of his iron tight hold and the throbbing behind my eyes making everything fuzzy. He makes a low frustrated noise in his throat.

  My hands are wrapped around his wrist, nails digging into his flesh, trying to get him to loosen his hold. “Where is it?” he asks and I don’t respond. I have absolutely no clue what he’s talking about. What is “it”? Deacon?

  He bangs my head against the kitchen cabinets once, twice, three times. Each time harder than the last. Causing pain to shoot from my skull to my shoulders with each jarring thud. The metallic smell of blood makes bile rise to the back of my throat as it trickles from the gash in my head, down my face, obscuring my view. All I can see are his dark brown eyes which are absolutely wild and filled with disgust. He starts reaching for his belt with the hand not secured around my throat. “I bet I can make you talk. How about if I fuck the truth from you while I choke the life out of you for being a lying bitch,” he snarls at me, hatred dripping off of every word. I don’t even recognize his voice, it’s filled with such malice.

  Up until that point, I had been frozen in fear, but the thought of him forcing himself on me spurs me into action and my fight or flight response finally kicks in. My throat on fire from lack of oxygen, still dazed from him banging my already injured head, I manage to raise my arm and swing wildly at him, clipping his temple with my closed fist.

  “You fucking bitch! You wanna fight, sweetheart?” he asks with a demonic smile on his face, the only thing visible the flash of his white teeth. I question myself repeatedly…Why? Why would he do this? What is he talking about? What truth? These question swirl around as I try to keep from passing out. The shooting pain in my head is making me so tired and weak. I just want to close my eyes for a little bit.

  Abandoning my throat, he wraps a fist in my loose hair while I struggle to pull in great big gulps of air. He wrenches my head backwards, dragging me toward the bedroom. I stumble, struggling against his brutal hold on my hair, when he jerks me forward again, and as I start to go down, he yanks me upright and backhands me. The pain explodes across my cheekbone, the skin splitting. I cry out and he does it again, this time catching me in the mouth, the coppery tang of blood against my tongue instantaneous.

  I fall to my knees in agony. When I reach out to try and catch myself, I sprawl forward, upsetting the dining chair and toppling the table. I’m once again snatched by my hair and dragged while I scramble to crab walk behind him. Once in the bedroom, he flings me toward the bed, the forward momentum sending me flying into the nightstand, breaking the bedside lamp and I take a hit from the mattress directly in the abdomen, knocking the wind right out of me. All the while I can smell the sulfur from the candle I had blown out earlier and the tobacco and cherry scent clinging to his clothes and hands. Sobbing in earnest, I crumple to the floor, my stomach muscles clenching from the lack of air. As I struggle to breathe, he kicks me hard in the ribs, screaming obscenities at me.

  “Tell me where!” he demands with such venom.

  He kicks me again, and this time I’m sure that he has cracked a rib, and what little breath I had managed to take in is stolen from me. I swallow back the bile brought on by the onslaught of pain and try to focus on getting air into my lungs. Curled up into the fetal position, I put my arms in front of my face to shield any other blows that might be coming. He’s completely unhinged, obviously set on causing me as much pain as he can possibly inflict. I don’t know this man. He’s become someone dark and terrifying, nothing like the man I once loved.

  He keeps kicking me, and I moan when an especially hard kick catches me in the temple, completely stunning me. My vision had been going in and out with each hit, and now my ears are ringing to the point that I can barely understand what he is saying to me.

  He grabs me roughly by my arm and pulls me to my feet, my ribs screaming in agony, my legs jelly from the pain. I can feel the blood trickling down my face into my eyes, my split lip swollen, my arms and head throbbing in protest. With one hand, he squeezes my face in a steely grip, the other holding me upright by the arm as I hang weakly at his mercy. Crying in fear and defeat, my heart no longer beats rapidly in terror, but instead slowly thumps in a dispirited tempo.

  He’s going to kill me.

  “Such a beautiful name, a gorgeous face, and it’s all a fucking lie. You’re a dirty plaything for a vile, white trash, piece of shit. Do you know that? He thinks he’s so smart, that he can fuck with me. It’s a shame you’ll have to suffer the lesson I must teach him. Such a shame he doesn’t value you the way that he should. Doesn’t recognize your worth, the way that I can see your worth.” I can feel him leaning in, smell the sweet tang of cherry on his fingertips. It’s unfamiliar. I can’t place the scent any more than I can the man I thought I knew.

  His hand is like a vice, and I’m terrified that he’s going to dislocate my jaw any second. I almost wish he would, maybe then I would black out and this nightmare would come to an end. Somehow I don’t think this is going to stop until he kills me though. He swipes the back of his hand over my mouth, clearing it of blood, spit, and snot. I would cry out if I could, but there’s not enough air or energy left in me as he kisses me roughly before hurling me toward the bathroom.

  “One last chance. Tell me where.” I’m not able to focus long enough to form a coherent thought through the debilitating haze of pain and terror that has washed over me, let alone answer his questions. “No? Then I will take what’s mine out of you for now. Not when you look like this. You’ll wash all of his filth off of you before I touch you.”

  He’s not making any sense. I shake my head no, ready to beg him, but he rears back and lets his fists fly. That simple refusal clearly annihilating whatever thread of control he had been hanging on to.

  I put my arms up again to protect myself as best I can, but he lands blow after bone rattling blow, forcing me farther and farther into the bathroom. Startled by his new found strength and the force behind every hit, I start to fall backwards, my arms windmilling furiously to catch my balance, but he doesn’t allow it. With another punishing kick to my stomach, I fold at the waist and feel yet another rib give way. I don’t even see the fist coming at me that sends me sprawling through the shower doors and slamming hard into the glass shelf on the opposite wall of the enclosure. I am barely able to raise my arms as glass rains down on me and I finally
feel the blackness taking me under, stopping the excruciating pain I’m in. Who is this monster?

  I’m brought back from my thoughts when I feel Deacon squeezing my hand almost to the point of pain. I hadn’t even realized that I’m crying, my body trembling from the onslaught of emotions. “Deac?”

  He glances up and I can see the anguish written all over his face before he schools his features and loosens his grip. “Sorry.” One word as he bends his head and places a kiss to my wrist, leaving his lips there for a moment.

  “Francesca, do you know what time this was?” Adams asks thoughtfully.

  I close my eyes, trying to picture as much as I can about that day.

  “It was dark…I couldn’t see much and I had just blown out the candle. I was going to turn the lamp on when I heard the garage door. I don’t recall the time, only that it was dark out and that Andrew was late, he said that he would be home before five.”

  Gradually I open my eyes, unable to recall anything else from the memory. Not able to look at Deacon, I pull a breath into my too tight chest and dash the tears still flowing.

  “Francesca, can you tell me what he was wearing? You said that you thought that he had been at the cigar bar…do you know the name of it?” she asks gently.

  Hands wrapped around Deacon’s, I narrow my eyes, willing myself to remember. “I think, I think it was blue. I remember him wearing blue that morning…no, brown.” Rubbing my forehead I look up at her. “I can’t remember.”

  “It’s okay, we’ll circle back to that. Do you know the name of the cigar bar?”

  “He likes to go to The Redhead on Ontario,” I tell her confidently. I know that answer.

  “Did he say that he was going there on his way home?”

  I shake my head no.

  “Then what made you think that that’s where he had been?” she questions gently.

  “The smell. It wasn’t his cologne, it was cherries and tobacco. He doesn’t smoke other than the occasional cigar.” I shrug, “It’s the only thing that I could think to explain it. The only thing that made sense.”

  “Okay.” The soft lilt of her voice doesn’t help soothe the tension or ease the adrenaline causing my heart to race and then stutter as I try to remember details of that night that seem just out of reach. I can smell it all and feel every punishing blow, every ounce of hurt, hear the sound of my own cries, but I can’t fill in the missing pieces.

  Slowly I shake my head to rid myself of the images of that night. My tongue darts to the corner of my mouth and the salty tears clinging there. A broken sob makes its way past my lips when I look over at Deacon. He has one hand thrust into his hair gripping so tight I’m afraid he’ll rip it out. His leg bounces furiously and the muscle in his jaw ticks violently. I squeeze the hand still holding mine until he looks at me. The tortured look in his beautiful, hazel eyes wrecks me. I shouldn’t have asked him to stay and sit through that. I know the type of man that he is, and that had to be so incredibly hard for him to hear.

  “Francesca, I know that was extremely difficult for you, but if you can just bear with me for a few minutes more, we’ll leave you be, okay?” the detective says in her soothing voice. “Did he seem like he had been drinking?” She pauses waiting for me to answer but I just shrug. “Was he alone?” I nod yes, my brows pulled in concentration, tugging at my stitches uncomfortably. “Who else did he think was there?”

  I huff out a frustrated breath. Reaching and grasping for the answers, but not able to grab a hold of them. “I don’t think he had been drinking but maybe. He always has a scotch with his cigar, but I don’t think he was drunk. Then again, he wasn’t acting like himself, so I guess he could’ve been.” Running my fingers over my tender scalp, I can feel the tears gathering and falling faster and faster as I try to massage the information free, but I just can’t find it. “I don’t know. I just don’t know!” The anguished sound that escapes me startles us all as I shout, “I can’t remember! It hurts to think about it! It physically and emotionally hurts.” My cries get louder, the floodgates now completely open. “Please, I—I d-don’t know,” I stutter brokenly, closing my eyes to shut them out.

  Clearing his throat, Deacon brings my wrist to his lips and places a kiss in his spot, his lips trembling slightly, his stubble scratching familiarly. He talks softly against my skin. Doing his best to soothe me. Standing, he looks down at me, devastation written all over him.

  “I have to take a minute, Princess. I think we could all use one. I just need to get my shit straight, okay?”

  He doesn’t wait for me to answer, just kisses his spot again and strides to the door. I press my lips together tightly, biting them to keep the plea from escaping, that he can’t leave me alone with them right now. Once across the room, he opens the door wide, and says in a monotone, “Detectives, I think that’s all that she can handle for one day. She’s still recovering and I don’t think that we should push her anymore today.”

  They glance at each other and then both stand to leave. Detective Adams steps closer and grips my hand. “You did well, Francesca. Here’s my card. If you remember anything about what he was wearing, what he may have been looking for or who, call me.”

  They nod their goodbyes to me before heading past Deacon. He closes the door behind them and comes back over to me. I watch him as he nears. And I can see every emotion on his face, in his movements, and they all chip away at my already fragile soul.

  Once at my side, he doesn’t say anything at first, just sits, eyes roaming my tear-stained face as he wipes them away with his callused fingers. Our gazes meet, he takes a deep breath, screwing his eyes shut, and brings my wrist back to his mouth. The beating of my heart is like a deafening roar in the silence of the room, and I can barely hear him whisper brokenly, “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

  I just broke the strongest man I know.

  Finally! After nearly two weeks, they’re springing my girl today, and I couldn’t be happier. I think that in order for her to heal properly we need to get her the hell out of the hospital. Away from the reminder of who put her here. I fought and fought for her to stay with me, but she refuses. She’s so damn stubborn. We all agree that with Guy’s schedule it would be best for her to stay with Indie.

  The elevator doors open, I wave hello to the nurses as I walk to Frankie’s room, stopping dead in my tracks when I see Cristiano standing in the hall with a bouquet of flowers.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask as I reach him.

  He eyes me warily. “I’ve come to see Francesca. The detectives are in there with her though, so I am waiting.”

  Not saying another word to him, I turn to her room and enter without knocking. She’s with the detectives, not the doctors, so she doesn’t need any privacy. I can hear Flashdance huffing and puffing about it, and see him stalk off as the door closes.

  Three sets of eyes land on me the second the door closes, but there’s only one pair of fiery blues I care about.

  “Hey, Deacon. I was just getting ready to call you,” Frankie says with a tired smile.

  “Speak of the devil and all that, right, Princess?” Winking I turn to Detective Adams and offer my hand, and nod at Flores hovering in the corner, which seems to be the norm.

  “Have you found any leads on Andrew?”

  Adams glances at Frankie for permission before turning back to me and answering. “Not yet, Mr. Love, but we are doing our absolute best to find whoever did this.”

  I believe her. She seems to really be invested in finding Frankie justice. I wonder if she knows that the Feds are involved and if she’s said anything to Frankie about it.

  I take a seat on the bed, taking Frankie’s hand as I do, placing a kiss in my spot.

  “So what brings you guys here then?” looking between the pair for answers. They haven’t been here since the day after she woke up.

  “We just wanted to touch base with Miss De Rosa, make sure we had a phone number and address where she can be reached,” Adams s
ays.

  “Will you have patrols on Indie’s house until Andrew is caught or what?” If they don’t, I will. There’s no way that I am leaving her anywhere unprotected while his crazy ass is on the loose.

  “We will do all we can to keep Ms. De Rosa safe, but you have to understand that there is only so much that the CPD can do in a situation like this,” Flores says from his side of the room.

  Fair enough. “I’ll have someone with her at all times, regardless.”

  “Do you really think that’s necessary?” Frankie replies with the fire in her voice that I’ve missed. “And what about Indie, huh?” Her lips purse and I can’t stop the smile taking over my face. All right then, she wants to argue.

  “This isn’t negotiable.” I stand my ground waiting for her next move.

  “I doubt she wants your goons hanging around the house all the time.” Even beat down, my girl is a fighter. I smirk. She thinks that she can win this one. She can’t.

  Adams stands, interrupting our discussion. “We’re going to go, but we’ll be in touch soon. I’m glad you’re feeling well enough to go home, Miss De Rosa.” We thank her as they leave.

  “Listen, it’s necessary, and Indie will just have to deal.” I give her hand a squeeze. “If you’re worried about Indie feeling put out though, we can always move you into your room at my place,” I tell her smugly.

  Her mind is working it all over—I can see it in her heavy-lidded eyes. “I want to stay with Indie, and if it becomes a problem, I can figure something else out,” she says reluctantly before turning her blues on me again. “Can it be Reggie though? I feel more comfortable with him and…safer, honestly.”

  “Anyone you want, baby,” I agree.